Walk Straight Down The Middle
by R. Scott
Summary: Post 2x08. Why not give it to her? This last scrap of dignity he had left, the last remnant that he’d somehow held on to. It was suddenly clear to him. She’d already taken everything else...Alex is slipping away; what would Gene give to keep her with him?


A/N: Hi! Hope you're all well. I, meanwhile, am still stuck in a post 2x08 Angst storm and ended up writing this dreary number. On the plus side, I'm starting college again soon, which usually means I'm swamped with ideas which will fill up what little free-time I have! Hope you like this one (I don't love it myself but I thought it post-worthy) and, as usual, I love to hear your comments, good or bad.

Enjoy.

Ruby :o)

* * *

She hovered across the darkened room in her pristine, silk cream blouse and pencil skirt, almost glowing; his darkened eyes were fixed on her. These offices always seemed more homely to him in the dead of night that at any other time, yet now as he sat behind his desk, only the dull rusty glow from the desk lamp casting light, he felt a torrent of unwelcome feeling that left him ill, a stale taste in his mouth. He leant back, sinking deep into the worn leather, cradling a tumbler of scotch as he watched with heavy lidded eyes, watched as she moved, ridiculously graceful, from desk to desk, collecting things. He wondered if she was dragging this process out longer than was actually necessary. Not for sentimental reasons, no, but to twist that blunt and bloodied knife ever more firmly into his gut. He felt the sting each time she brought a hand to her side, the pain from what felt like so long ago still lingering. For both of them.

_Recent events taken into consideration...perhaps it would be more beneficial for the both of you if D.I Drake were to be transferred._

He tossed the liquid to the back of his throat; staring bitterly through the glass that separated them, trying to glare but certain the expression on his face was something else entirely. He never could control it these days.

_I see. And, er...would this be a permanent move, Sir?_

_It's for the best, Hunt. She's been an asset to your team here, it must be said...but your current situation has been a, uh...a cause for concern._

_It were an accident._

_As we are all well aware, Hunt. But after DI Drake approached me with the matter, it was clear that-_

_She asked for it?_

He felt the burn in his throat spread throughout the rest of his exhausted body, not a comforting sensation at all; instead it was like an ache, like every muscle in his body had been clamped in a vice. He could barely see the expression on her face as she placed the last of the papers into a box on her own desk, patted them gently. He heard her sigh. Tried to convince himself that she was torn about this; that the sigh had been laced with fond memories of them, of _him, _tried not to let the truth of it bleed through. Because there were no fond memories now. They'd all been sullied, smeared with his cruel words and her lies. And her blood.

_Yes, she requested the transfer. I thought she'd discussed it with you._

_She never stopped goin' on about it._

_And yet, it appears this has come as a shock to you, Hunt?_

_I never thought she'd go through with it._

His dark gaze didn't seem to affect her. She knew he was there after all, knew he had been watching her every move and still she continued to arrange things dispassionately, detached from it all. It only served to enrage him further; yet he had no right to feel it in the first place, no right to be angry with her. Couldn't stop it though, too late for that.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before walking towards his office. He listened as her heels clacked against the hard floor, stared unblinking as he waited for what little light there was in the room to finally show her to him. His chest tightened as she stepped past the glass, into the light, saw at last the dark shine in her eyes, a coldness about her that he'd become all too used to in recent days. No readable expression on her face; she was like a painting, faded and ancient, a sight he'd grown so accustomed to yet it still had the power to render him speechless. Cold, beautiful, empty, divine.

And he'd thought when he'd pulled that trigger, thought in the madness of the moment that he'd ended it all at last, fulfilled that promise he'd made himself long ago, when he'd first realised the extent of what she really was to him. _Get rid of her._

But no. It hadn't been the end. It had just dragged on and on, with disgusted looks and outraged cries, desperate, empty words and the sickening guilt that still hadn't faded, that still pulsed through his blood like a disease. Slowly killing him, day by day.

Staring up at her, mirroring her blank expression, he swallowed another mouthful of scotch, his gaze unfaltering.

_Say it_, he willed. _Say goodbye. End it_.

An unexpected surge of anger rushed through him and the force of it caused him to stand up. It was a pivotal moment after all, he thought; it demanded his full attention, _she _demanded it of him in her own, silent way. Still, her face was devoid of all emotion. Sick of the sight, he leant on his desk, head falling, and suddenly realised he'd been drinking steadily and felt the effects alarmingly quickly, a bizarre wave of nausea along with some kind of perverse pleasure.

"You off then?" he ground out, a slight slur in his words. Better he was drunk, he thought, dulled the anger a little, it dulled the pain.

He waited. She didn't reply.

"Yeah, that's right," he continued, smiling to himself wryly, staring down at the hard surface of his desk and watched as it blurred slightly. "Best not say anythin', eh? Just, head straight out, no turnin' back. Brand new start."

He closed his eyes, carried on waiting. Still nothing.

"S'all lies, anyway, isn't it?" he continued, not caring, head still bowed low as he rammed his hands into his pockets and moved around the desk towards her, until he was stood in front of her. "All fucking lies. Best not say anything. Just...run away."

His voice was nothing more than a drunken mumble, a slur into the collar of his shirt, and he brought his head back up, heavy and sluggish. What was he expecting to see- tears, perhaps? Anger? A smile, cruel and heartless as she proved once and for all that she was above him, above this?

Her face hadn't changed. He felt something inside him crumble, a strange desperation worming through his veins, clawing at him, desperate to escape. He watched, fascinated, as her dry lips began to move, as one word left her. Still cold, like ice, her eyes dead. The killing blow.

"Guv."

It was goodbye. Nothing more, nothing less, and yet it told him everything; he saw it all, the end of it, of this, whatever it was. Finally, at last, after days of waiting in acute agony, it was over in one word, a word he heard every single day of his life, a word that suddenly had more dark significance than it ever had before. The irony was almost too much to bear; he wasn't her Guv, not anymore. Yes, it was impersonal; it was perfect in its simplicity, in its deliberate coldness. It told him all he needed to know.

And he waited for the relief, the relief that should come with the undisputable knowledge that it was finally over, the knowledge that they'd never share anything again, never talk again, never see each other again. Still he waited as, slow and haunting, she began to move away from him.

It never came.

Instead, he lunged forward madly, grabbing hold of her upper arm in a crushing grip, swaying and stumbling against his desk, more drunk than he realised. He held onto her, could feel his jaw trembling as he was overcome with every emotion possible, found it fitting that it should end this way. Why not, he thought, his every notion clouded in a drunken fog; why not end it this way, in a sea of rage and lust and guilt and humiliation, why not? He shook her slightly first, watched as she closed her eyes, jaw sticking out, as if she'd expected this. His mouth moved, the words hovering on his tongue, tasting vile and wrong but desperation was ruling him, madness, and he realised he couldn't sink any lower as he clung to her, couldn't do anything worse than what he'd already done, couldn't lose anymore of himself to her. Why not give it to her, this last scrap of dignity he had left, the last remnant that he'd somehow held on to. It was suddenly clear to him. She'd already taken everything else.

"I love you."

She stood perfectly still; he felt it under his grip as she tensed, as she froze up. He watched, part horrified, part longing, as her eyes widened; as emotion flared in them suddenly, as tears flashed there in an instant. And for a wild moment, he knew in perfect clarity that she had everything of him. That, from this moment on, he was unconditionally _hers_.

The words hovered about them, still ringing through his ears in this long, silent moment. Stupid, empty, meaningless words, words that had left his lips with the same sincerity only once before, long ago when he hadn't realised their magnitude. He felt it now though, finally acknowledged the truth in them and he knew he was drunk, knew he was foolish, knew he'd condemned himself to a half-life, an empty life. It was worth it though, he thought, worth it for this one single second of elation, this unrivalled moment of bliss even though he knew it was about to come crashing down around him.

A single, black tear fell from her eye as, finally, she spoke in a whisper.

"I see. And that's supposed to make it all OK, is it?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, _so drunk_, not quite able to give into the pain quite yet, still willing to cling on a little more desperately. He pulled her closer to him. "_Yes."_

This seemed to shock her more than anything else as she let out a small, incredulous gasp, more tears escaping her. She wasn't pulling away from him. His grip on her arm was making his knuckles ache.

"It doesn't, Gene. It doesn't change anything."

Her voice shook. He felt her slipping away from him again, that familiar terror returning ten-fold, and he couldn't believe that she couldn't see it, couldn't see how it changed everything, because of course it did, how could it not? He could feel the desperate anger, the adamant denial all rising to the surface, his jaw turned down as he let out a despairing, broken growl.

"_Why?"_

She stared at him, a strange expression on her face, almost aghast. Disbelieving, he thought- unable to fathom that he'd sunk so low, he'd given into it, he'd let it claim him. Because of course, how could she possibly understand her part in his endless, complicated life when he barely understood it himself, could barely comprehend her importance, her significance. He let out a breath, unaware that he'd been holding it tight in his chest, and he shook her lightly again as if this action reinforced his words.

"Let go of me, please," she said, her voice steady but he could hear something she was holding back, everything and nothing, and he couldn't let her go because he knew she was about to break down along with him, knew he was about to break through and he couldn't go down on his own, no, he had to take her with him; his hopes and fears all suddenly rested on her, depended on her, and _why couldn't she see it?_

He gritted his teeth together.

"Alex- "

"_No." _She shoved out of his grasp, staring at him now with disgust and, in an attempt to control herself, brought a finger up to her lips only to point it at him. Fine, he thought, come on then, say your worst, because this was what he wanted, this fire, this passion, this rage. _Scream at me._ "Stop it."

He didn't say anything then, because he knew she could say it better. He let the heavy silence start to drown them, let her stand there about to burst and he waited, waited again for her to decide, for her judgement, for her words. Waiting, it was all he did, all he'd done since the moment he met her, waited for the right moment; and even when perfect ones had passed him buy like a bitter gale, he'd carried on, not caring, just waiting for the next one.

This was the last one. And it was all on her.

"It's too _late!"_ she hissed, bringing a hand up to her head as if it were about to split open, her lip trembling, about to break into a sob. _Go on, _he thought madly, staring at her with such intensity he thought that just the force of that gaze would keep her there. _Just cry. One of us has to. _

She let out a long breath, closing her eyes, reigning in some of the emotion that was on the verge of escaping. When looked at him again, the coldness was back.

"It's too late, Gene," she said quietly...but he saw something new in her eyes then, something that made him cling on tighter while everything else about her was slowly prying his fingers off the edge. Sadness. Regret. All the time they'd spent together, every moment.

"I thought I could do this," she said, shaking her head slightly, jaw trembling again and he was helpless as he stood there, staring at her. "I thought I could stand to come in here everyday and get on with my job. I thought I could come here and work with you, talk to you. Like...like nothing had happened."

She smiled slightly, darkly, before she tuck out her jaw. Tears flowed silently from her and he looked away, feeling sick to death.

"But I couldn't," she said in a tearful whisper. "I can't...I can't even _look at you."_

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, clamping his lips together, feeling like he was about to crumble to the ground, the bloody knife that she held in her perfect grip plunging ever deeper into his gut.

"You don't _mean that_..." he mumbled, instantly regretting it, sounding pathetic, and he ran both his hands down his face, letting out a deep, frustrated growl that startled even him. He grabbed her arms again, pulling her to him.

"Why are you still 'ere?" he almost shouted, a tiny sound escaping her that could have been a gasp. "Eh? If you felt that way, you would 'ave gone by now. You wouldn't stick around so you could say goodbye!"

"You know what, you're _right!_" she cried, her resolve finally slipping and with a force he hadn't thought her capable of, she shoved out of his grasp again, knocking him backwards. But she still wasn't finished.

"You hurt me!"

It stung like a slap and he retaliated instinctively, slamming his fist into the cabinet behind her, leaning close to her in an impossibly fast motion that made him feel nauseous.

"_You lied to me!"_

There. Because that was what really hurt, wasn't it. The thought that she had him in the palm of her hands and had chosen to squeeze the life out of him, the notion that he belonged to her but she wasn't his, not really. Thought she could be at one point, but as soon as she'd uttered those mad words on that awful day that had changed everything between them, he'd lost all sight of her; she'd blurred into something dark and deadly, provoking a rage in him he'd never felt before in his life. He tried to ignore it, tried to bury the sincerity of her gaze, the desperation of her pleas to believe him. He couldn't mistake that. _That's_ what really hurt.

It had changed, though. The moment he'd sent that bullet through the air. The moment he'd thought he'd lost her.

And now he was losing her all over again.

Breathing heavily, he let his head fall again, unable to bear the haunted look that suddenly flashed in her eyes. They were both silent for a moment then, both trying to catch their breaths, and he felt the desperate urge to grab hold of her again but he held back, knowing it wouldn't make a difference. He felt his heart shrivel up inside his chest, blackened and choked, and bringing up his head to look her in the eye, a dark scowl formed on his face.

"What more d'you want from me, Bolls," he started, his voice low, an edge to it that he couldn't control. "You want me to get on my knees, beg you forgive me?"

She flinched a little but otherwise remained silent, still not moving. And she would have left by now, he convinced himself again: she would have left already if she didn't care.

"I would," he said, his voice choked with sudden emotion. He shook his head, frowning at himself in absolute disbelief, unable to recognise the man that was reflected in the glass walls. He almost laughed. "If that's what you wanted. I would. Because I just...I'm done. I'm past carin', alright?"

Past caring. About the job, about me. About the betrayal, the deceit, the lies, the broken sobs and empty threats. She was the only thing left.

She pressed her hand to her head again, apparently in agony, closing her eyes as her face almost collapsed on itself. Unaware of what he was doing, he reached up, still trembling, and placed his hand on her face in what was intended as a gentle motion, but seemed wrought with anxiety, exhaustion, a horrendous display of how weak he was, how weak she'd made him. It still managed to hold her in place. She didn't pull away. _She didn't pull away._

He didn't know what he was doing. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, stepped closer to her as he pulled her hand back down, faltering, ran his fingers back up her arm. He felt like he was walking along a wire, like any minute he would plummet downwards, dragging her with him.

"I'msorry_," _he said, his voice low and quiet, full of painful sincerity yet something altogether sinister about it. The words ripping through his throat, setting it alight, the world tipping slightly on its axis as her tear-filled eyes met his and he'd trapped her there, somehow. Sniffing loudly, she brought her hands to his own face and her touch shot through him, ice cold and alive, smooth and golden; her perfect little fingers suddenly on his old, haggard face. He thought he might sink to the ground.

And was this it? He thought it might be. The moment. That...resonating sensational second, the moment he looked over the edge of his reason and logic and saw everything for what it really was. Everything else was just tiny, pale in comparison to this; everything suddenly locked into place and made perfect fucking sense. That brilliantly simple life, gone. Now it was only her. Them. All change.

He looked deeply into her eyes, seeing a swirling mass of insanity. Seeing life and death and everything in between. In that moment he understood her. Understood as the two of them sank into the abyss that had formed between them.

"You need me, Alex," he whispered menacingly, so certain. No room for argument and his fiery gaze made her limp in his arms. "You need me."

Those words told her more than any declaration of love could; and suddenly he saw the realisation in her eyes. Saw as she finally realised that she'd reached into his chest with her sharp red claws and ripped out his pathetic heart, all bruised and blackened and old, yet still aching terribly for her, still wanting whatever she'd give him, any scrap. And now she knew it. Now she could see it.

The kiss that followed descended his world into madness.


End file.
